


Slick

by Anonymous



Category: Grease (1978), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Draco Malfoy in Leather Pants, Hedwig is a Motorcycle, Humor, Inspired by Grease, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Slick is the word. Harry's bike is a bird. And Poor Draco's a sex noob.





	Slick

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to everyone who held my hand. A, C, and P for their wonderful alpha/beta work and cheerleading. S for letting me cry on their shoulder. Last but not least, the eternally patient mods who have all my respect and admiration for running this fest and allowing me to take part in it.

_Slick is the word,_

_Harry’s bike is a bird_

_And poor Draco’s a sex noob_

_Slick is a fanfic, a parody, a lotion_

_Slick is the name for wizard lube_

 

_~~~_

Riding his bike with the wind whipping his face, pleasure furled in his gut, makes Harry feel alive. Grinning as he zooms over the trees, Harry shifts the engine out of cruise control and picks up speed.

The flying motorcycle’s a gift from Sirius, his surrogate father. They’d gone into Hogsmeade on Harry’s birthday and met with Hagrid, the mechanic who ran _The Hog’s End_ , a subsidiary of Dumbledore’s wizarding biker bar, _The Hog’s Den_.

Together, the three of them had walked the lot until Harry’s eyes fell onto a beautiful snowy white motorcycle in need of repair. He’d fallen immediately. Hagrid had even agreed to hold it for him at the shop until he returned to Hogwarts after the summer holiday.

So what if Harry’s only been flying for a few weeks? He’s survived worse. And Sirius thinks he’s a natural, just like his father. His old man would be proud.

The motorcycle thrums warningly between his thighs as Harry descends just over the castle gates. An owl swoops into his path and Harry swears, quickly swerving to avoid it while steadily losing altitude. Being a natural flyer doesn’t mean he’s without his share of close calls, but as the boy single-handedly known for cheating death, he supposes danger comes with the territory.

Harry hits the brakes, heart hammering as he steers the bike to a stop just outside the Quidditch pitch. It kicks up dirt as it goes, skidding across the grass.

In the words of Sirius Black: _Survive first, apologize later_.

Like he really, _really_ ought to do to the first year he’s splattered in mud.

Sure, the boy’s trembling lip and Hufflepuff scarf are at odds with the finger he shoots Harry after a quick _Tergeo_ \-- but at least he’s still in one piece. Score one for survival instincts. And hopefully, Harry thinks with anticipation, score one for Hogwarts; tonight’s their biggest game of the season.

Harry gives the bike an affectionate pat. “Good girl.” It thrums in response.

Casting another cleaning charm, Harry turns the engine off and dismounts. Looks around as he shrugs his beaten dragonhide jacket so it fits snug. The school grounds are a sea of parents and students alike. Bundled up in their coats and autumn garb, they seem to feed off each other’s excitement, eager for the match to begin.

“Oi! Potter!”

The gang spot him first. It’s Ron, leading the pack with a lopsided grin and a wave. Fred and George dart out from behind him, descending on Harry to further ruffle his ruined hair. Charlie brings up the rear. They’re all dressed in their matching sweaters, Harry wearing his own beneath his dragonhide jacket. Not that he needs to. Even without the uniform, everyone at Hogwarts knows _The Weasels_. Like they know that whenever the five of them get together, it’s bound to be a good time.

“Welcome back, ‘ickle Harry,” Fred gives his cheek a good natured pinch. “Enjoy your holiday?”

“He was away from us, wasn’t he?” ribs George from Harry’s other side. “Just look how tan you’ve gotten!” He claps a hand over his heart. “Our Harry, rising from the water, glistening like a bloody Adonis! Plenty of blokes to keep him company!”

“It _is_ blokes now, isn’t it,” Ron says in a way that suggests he’s still making peace with the idea.

Harry nods. They’d had this talk before he left, the trip abroad more than confirming what was then just a hunch. If he closes his eyes, he can still see it --the sun, the sand, white-hot against the horizon. Pale hair, and eyes as clear and cool as the water itself. Long, elegant fingers wrapped in his, tantalizing droplets sliding down creamy skin..

Blinking, Harry comes back to himself. No, he doesn’t begrudge Ron needing more time to get used to the idea. Merlin knows it’d taken Harry long enough, even if it was worth it.

“Let’s hope he leaves some for the rest of us.” Charlie offers Harry a wink that makes his ears burn. His eyes move past Harry to his ride. “What’s this, then?”

Finally! Harry frees himself, grinning as he sweeps an arm towards the bike. “This,” he says, almost bursting with pride, “is _Hedwig_.”

George circles the motorcycle. Fred crouches down, his brows drawn together as he examines the rusted gears with a critical eye. “Bit of a fixer upper, isn’t it?”

Harry deflates. “Sirius helped me pick it out. Says old and loved is always better than newly built. Antiques absorb magic better.”

“And he would know,” Ron says quickly, coming to Harry’s defense with a nod. “He’s raced for years. If Sirius says it’s alright, it’s--” His outstretched hand brushes the mirror, which hits the ground and rolls. “Uh...”

“You’re icing a rock cake.” Charlie snorts, his eyes sympathetic. “Sirius is old money. You know how they think. Everything old is better, no matter how decrepit. Look at Kreacher.”

“Kreacher’s alright,” Harry lies, thinking of his breakfast of dry burnt toast and weak tea.

“I love you Harry, but it’s a piece of shite.” Charlie bites his lip. “You’ll never beat Riddle with this. Especially not after--”

“What? What’s Riddle done now?”

Ron crosses his arms. “Bought a new bike. Calls this one _Nagini._ ” Ron wrinkles his long nose. “Now there’s a rumor he’s put part of his soul inside to torque it up.”

Harry looks at them each in turn. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? Tom Riddle’s a wanker!” He insists. “Last time I rode so hard he couldn’t take it! Now he’s afraid I’ll take his arse again!”

A group of third years girls, decked head to toe in their house colors, burst into giggles as they pass. Harry rolls his eyes. “Hedwig just needs a bit of work,” he says in a lower voice. “I’ll get her there.”

“We’ll have Hermione look at it,” Ron suggests. “She knows everything. Those Death Eaters won’t know what hit ‘em.”

 _This_ is why Ron is his second. Harry claps him on the back, grateful. “First chance we get.”

Someone lets out a wolf whistle. “Look what the Hippogriff dragged in.”

Harry turns.

Ginny bends to pick up the broken mirror Ron knocked off, idly checking her reflection before tossing it to him. She’s accompanied by Luna, as well as a few stragglers Harry can’t place. Her hair’s in a high ponytail and she’s wearing one of his old sweaters from before their breakup -- almost a dress on her petite frame -- looking as fresh and pretty as always.

Harry says as much, and her smile grows sharp around the edges. “Your loss.”

“I know.” Pointedly he trails his eyes down to her sweater and back. “Here to start trouble?”

“Of course not,” Ginny says as innocently as Fred and George ever could. “In fact, I brought you something I think you’ll like.”

“Another mirror? Cause--” The words die on his lips as someone’s shoved to the front of the circle. Ginny steps aside.

“Draco?”

Harry feels like he’s been hit by a stunner, a _Petrificus Totalus_ to every muscle with the exception of his heart, pounding dangerously.

Draco’s face mirrors his shock. “Harry?”

“Draco!” Harry rushes forward. He takes in Malfoy’s long limbs and shapely eyebrows. His slightly prominent ears and the almost alarmingly perfect nose that Harry spent hours on the beach tracing with his eyes. “What are you doing here!? I thought you said your family decided to stay in France!”

“There was a change of plans,” Draco laughs. He sounds pleased in that posh way of his, cheeks flushed, eyes alight as they rove over Harry. “They couldn’t bear to be away from Wiltshire. I’m to finish my education here.”

“That’s so great, I--”

Someone clears their throat and Harry starts. The Weasels stare, pointedly. Ron’s gone splotchy with displeasure, Hermione, skeptical. Behind Draco, Ginny’s friends wait eagerly for more, their expressions greedy except for Luna who looks as serene as she always does.

It quickly dawns on Harry how all of this must look. The last time anyone’s seen him in the company of Draco Malfoy, they’d been exchanging blows. Harry defending the honor of his then girlfriend, Draco the insult to his family name.

They’d both been a little wrong about things.

Harry glances at Ginny, who raises an eyebrow back.

“--I couldn’t care less,” Harry quickly backpedals, deeply aware of the eyes on him. “What you do is none of my business, _Malfoy_. I don’t know about you, but I have plenty of better things to do with my time.”

Draco blinks, looking confused. “Harry?”

“I mean,” Harry continues, the words falling from his mouth faster than he can think them. “If you’re obsessed with me, I’m sure there’s a fanclub you can join.” Some chuckles go around the circle and Harry doubles down. “Or read about me in the paper. Tell you Father you want it, he’ll buy _The Prophet_ for you.”

Ron snickers. “Yeah Malfoy. Then you can start your own column.”

“His very own _Potterwatch!_ ”

Draco recoils like he’s been slapped. “Har-- What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with _me_ ,” Harry says, his tone light. “What’s wrong with you? Feeling peaky now that you’re mingling with the common folk? I can invite a couple Slytherins if that’s more your speed.”

“No thank you,” Draco says through clenched teeth, anger seeping into his voice. “I’d rather talk to the Harry Potter I met over the summer. Any idea where _he’s_ gone?”

“Have you tried a summoning charm?”

Draco’s glare is acidic. “You don’t want me using my wand, Potter.”

“A solid gold time-turner! So you can go back to this summer.”

“If I could go back,” Draco spits, “I’d tell you that you kiss like a dying trout who’s been eating cabbage. That you’re an attention-whore and a phoney who I was right about all along. Better yet,” he says, raising his chin so that Harry barely glimpses the flicker of genuine hurt in Draco’s eyes, “I’d go back to a time where I’d never met you at all!”

Their audience oohs and jeers as Draco storms off, disappearing into the throng with Luna on his heels.

Harry bites his lip. He feels like he’s watching everything from outside himself, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. A strong hand claps Harry on the back. Another squeezes his shoulder. He doesn’t look round to see who it is.

He needs to go after Draco. He should chase him down and apologize. Tell Draco that he didn’t mean any of it and he was posturing for his friends, something Harry never thought he’d do.

Of their own volition, his eyes wander until they reach Ginny. She holds his gaze, shaking her head with a mixture of disappointment and pity. Harry may as well be two inches tall. Her mouth moves to form one word, three syllables:

_Idiot._

 

→→→•←←←

 

The Manor is eerily quiet at this time of night. It’s been hours since Hogwarts’ victory over Durmstrang, a decisive match that turned completely in their favor once Hogwarts’ keeper caught the snitch early into the second half.

Once he’d assured Lovegood that he had no plans to _Avada Kravada_ himself or, Merlin forbid, dye his hair _pink_ , he’d left the school grounds and apparated home. Draco’s parents, their guests -- even the house elves -- had already tucked off to their beds, leaving no one to ask Draco why he was there. Unfortunately that also meant there was no one to distract him from his thoughts.

“Stupid Potter,” Draco mutters to himself, punching his pillow. “Mine’s not the first heart broken.” He throws another one off the side of the bed when it proves too lumpy. Pretends it’s Harry’s face. “My eyes are _not_ the first to cry.”

And Draco absolutely refuses to cry over Potter. It’s _the worst thing_ he could do.

Barefoot, Draco slips from between the sheets and opens his window. The pane bangs softly as he steps out onto the roof just beyond the windowsill. With his wand at his hip, he’s careful with his footing, toeing his way across the roof’s tiles until he reaches his favorite spot behind the eaves.

In the country the stars are always out. Each star a pinprick of light, luminous in the darkness. Draco wonders what Harry would think of the view. If there’s a chance they’d ever sit out here together, a conspiratorial grin shared between them, his dragonhide jacket draped over Draco’s shoulders.

“ _There’s nowhere to hide_ ,” he sings aloud, surprisingly in tune for someone who’s never done it before. “ _Since I know that I lied._

_Potter doesn’t kiss like a fish._

_They should call him: ‘The Chosen Tonguuuuuuue’_ ,” Draco spreads his arms.

 _“THEY SHOULD CALL HIM:_ _‘THE CHOSEN TONGUE’!”_

Just as quickly as the thought comes to Draco, it sours - he wonders how many others Potter’s cozied up to under the stars. How many others boys he’s kissed. Draco replays their last exchange in his head, Potter’s friends laughing as he’d stood there, furious and humiliated.

“ _But now!_

_Potter’s a tool,_

_And I refuse to be a fool,_

_He must be out of his head_ ,

 _IF HE THINKS I’LL EVER GIVE HIM_ \--”

There’s a loud crack, like a whip. It’s a house elf, smothering a yawn as she scowls up at Draco.

“Master has sent Coskey to tell Master Draco he is to sleep, sir, _right now_ or Master Draco will hear it in the morning!”

He gapes as Coskey snaps her fingers and disappears once again.

Sighing, Draco flops back onto the roof’s chilled stone. It’s true Potter has positively all of Hogwarts at his feet. His choice of anyone he wants from the flock of admirers who throw themselves at him everyday. Draco _knows_ all this, yet some rebellious part of him will always be hopelessly devoted.

But that’s alright as long as Potter doesn’t know.

 

→→→•←←←

 

Autumn is Harry’s least favorite time of the year.

Soggy rain clouds wander there from the Britain to sulk over the Scottish Highlands. With them comes fallen leaves that turn to mush under Harry’s boots, weather that keeps him from even _thinking_ about riding Hedwig without Hermione throwing him scathing looks, and the near constant reminders of death that surround him: the skeletal trees, the morose sky and the end of October. The loss of precious things.

Not to mention it’s been _weeks_ since the game.

Not to mention he still doesn’t have a date for the stupid dance.

Not to mention the corner booth.

Harry scowls, his leg juddering under The Weasels’ table at the _Three Broomsticks_. He’s very careful to keep his eyes fixed on Ron, who’s seated across from him -- Ron and _only_ Ron.

Mentally he pats himself on the back for managing it all of five seconds before scowling again. To his left Fred and George are deep in conversation. Charlie’s off playing darts. His choices are limited to either Ron, Madam Rosmerta’s (rather exposed) bust, or his sweaty glass of water. And while her breasts were lovely, Harry found the last two equally as exciting as the other.

It doesn’t help that Ron is drawing things out to intolerable levels. Harry loves his best friend like a brother, but measured on the Weasley Scale™, going out to eat with Ron rates about a _Percy_ , as opposed to his usual _Bill_. Harry’s _this close_ to either ordering for him, or reaching across the table to seize the menu from Ron’s hands and whack him over the head with it.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of white-blonde catches the light.

Harry’s leg picks up speed. Maybe if Ron orders before the year ends, Harry can finally ask him to switch seats without feeling like a nutter.

“A strawberry sundae,” Ron says with confidence. Stops. “Wait, wait no. _Butterbeer_.”

Rosmerta releases a slow exhale, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. Clears her notepad with a tap of her quill.

“A butterbeer sundae. Two scoops beer, one scoop chocolate,” Ron counts each addition off on his fingers. “Two bananas, nuts, caramel sauce, whip, dash o’ salt and a cherry… please.” He hurries to add, cowering under her stare.

Falling into the seat beside Ron, Charlie groans. Harry makes the stupid mistake of glancing over, catching sight of the pale head just beyond Charlie’s shoulder as it whips back around.

“Alright?” Charlie frowns, making to look over his shoulder.

“Don’t!” Harry hisses.

Rosmerta turns her attention to the other side of the booth. “Do _you_ know what you want?”

George folds his hands, smiling pleasantly. “Your phone number. Please.”

“Fresh. You must not be very hungry.”

“I’m the one in charge of the stomach,” says Fred, importantly. “Georgie handles the other end of things, if you catch my snitch.” He vanishes the menu. “Burger, fries and a large pumpkin malt. Two straws.” He flutters his lashes at George who pretends to smatter his twin’s face with kisses.

“You dear?”

Harry tears his eyes away from the corner booth and shakes his head. He’s lost his appetite. Charlie definitely looks over his shoulder this time, and Harry’s stomach swoops. He quickly grabs the menu from Ron, hiding behind it. “Er, uh. I guess I can have one scoop?”

Rosmerta nods. “Nuts?”

“Yeah, he definitely wants those.” Charlie shoots him a knowing wink, while the others snicker. “Nice salty ones. Rich in Vitamin _D_.”

“Oh, har har,” Harry snaps from behind the parchment. “You’re one to talk. I’ve known you to enjoy a good sausage from time to time.”

“I do like them meaty,” Charlie sighs wistfully. His face takes on a dreamy expression as he braces his hands behind his head. “Maybe I ought to have a bite after all.”

Ron brightens. “We can split one together!”

The cringeworthy discussion that follows fades to nothing as Harry tunes out of the conversation. He’s distracted, his eyes skating back to the booth across the way. Draco -- _Malfoy_ , he chides himself -- is becoming nice and cozy with Zachariah Smith. Smith, who the last time he checked, is the complete opposite of Harry: flowing dirty blonde hair, tall, with bulging muscles. Sure, he’s intelligent enough and has loads of money, and Harry’s seen him naked in the locker room when nobody thought he was looking -- but Smith’s _the worst_ kind of snob.

Harry tears at his napkin.

There’s a shift in the conversation. Malfoy’s slipping from the booth, striding in the direction of the toilets. Harry scrambles up, vaulting over George who doesn’t blink twice. “Takin’ a piss.”

Carefully, he walks the long way around, zigzagging through the tables so that once he reaches the bathroom door, his delayed entrance makes it plausible that he hasn’t even seen Draco. Harry’s drunk a full glass of water. He’s just here for a leak.

The only closed stall opens and he spares a moment to mentally shake his head at the fact that Draco is apparently too shy to use the urinals along the wall, but open to practically mounting Smith’s lap in public.

When Draco spots him, he pauses mid stride. It only lasts a moment, then he’s back to his old self. He approaches, close enough that Harry sees his jaw clench as Draco turns on the faucet.

“Stalking me now, are you?”

“Everyone comes to the _Broomsticks_ , Malfoy, not just you,” Harry answers. He’s carefully avoiding the question. He’s also shit at lying. “The Weasels are regulars here. Ask Rosmerta.”

Draco nods with mock consideration. “So you guys make it a practice to go around like you own the place. No wonder you took that table in the middle of the restaurant.” He scoffs at his dripping hands. “Bet you loved being the center of attention.”

“You know that’s not--”

“That’s what’s so nice about Smith,” Draco interrupts, speaking over Harry as he dries his hands. “He’s a more subtle sort of fellow. Doesn’t have to have all eyes on him. Doesn’t feel the need to perform like a trained seal.”

“So boring you have to poke him to make sure he’s alive,” Harry deadpans.

“He’s an _intellectual_. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

“I know all I need to know about him. I’d much rather know about you.”

Harry’s not sure if he imagines it or not; the faint shiver as Draco turns to look at him. Licks his lips. “You had your chance, Potter. Your being jealous has nothing to do with me.”

“I’m _not_ jealous.”

“Right.” Draco makes to leave. It’s a wild fit of instinct that makes Harry reach out to grab his arm. A jolt of heat to his groin at the way Draco’s eyes flash when he pulls him close.

“Would you care if I were?”

Harry steps in close. Draco doesn’t immediately pull back and Harry presses his advantage, bringing his other hand up to rest on Draco’s waist. Water drips rhythmically into the basin, echoing around them.

“If I were jealous,” Harry repeats hoarsely, “watching you with him. Would you want me to be?”

“I might-- enjoy it.” An attempted shrug.

“And?”

Draco releases a shaky exhale, milkshake sweet breath fanning Harry’s lips, his cheeks. He can feel the way Draco’s knees bump against his thighs, their chests brushing. The tight knit of Draco’s jumper catches on the teeth of Harry’s jacket as he stares at him, clearly torn.

“Zacharias is waiting for me.” It comes out like Draco’s trying to remind himself; hopes saying the name will bring him to his senses. “I have to get back.”

“Don’t go. Draco…”

Draco side-steps Harry and slips out the door. It bangs shut with an air of finality, clearing the fog in his head to bring things back into sharp relief. Harry takes a moment to run his fingers under the tap. Watches his reflection as he palms his cool hands over his neck until it’s no longer flushed.

When Harry finally heads back to his table, Malfoy and Smith are gone. Charlie’s left too, presumably to fulfill his appetite for ‘meat’. George and Fred are taking turns sipping the last dregs of what looks like another pumpkin malt, rising as Harry approaches to throw their robes over the shoulder of their jumpers.

“Takin’ off, Harry.” Fred pats him on the shoulder and squeezes, looking happy. “We’ve got plans with a couple of lovely ladies, and you know what they say!”

“ _Witches wait for no broom_?” Harry says glumly, nipping a fry from someone’s abandoned plate, to drag it in a dollop of catsup.

“Huh. That’s quite better than what I was thinking,” says George. “Of course, what I was thinking can’t be said in pleasant company.”

“Get out of here,” Ron grouches through a mouthful of food.

“Use protection,” Harry adds, ever vigilant.

“Shield charm our cocks, got it!” Fred sings, the twins laughter following them out.

Ron finishes chewing, then swallows, his eyes full of concern as he takes in Harry’s face.

“Alright?”

As grateful as he for Ron asking, Harry’s mind can’t seem to settle on a definitive answer. The best he can do right now is honesty.

Harry swallows, his throat thick. “I don’t know.”

Ron huffs, softly. “It’s just Malfoy, mate.” He brushes the crumbs off his hands onto his empty plate. “Never seen you this hung up before.”

“He’s different.”

“In more ways than one,” Ron says doggedly. “But if he’s different-- _really_ different,” he stresses before Harry can interrupt, “then you have to treat him that way.”

Harry shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s been arm in arm with Smith since the game.”

“ _Smith_?” Ron laughs. “He’s been sniffing around Malfoy since fourth year, not the other way around. Far as I see it, that pointy git’s only has eyes for you.”

Hope rises against Harry’s better judgement. “You think?”

“Fred says Malfoy was practically burning a hole through you, he was staring so hard. Every time you looked away. Smith couldn’t stand it.”

“Maybe...” Harry tries not to get carried away, but he can’t help the squirm of satisfaction. He thinks back to Draco standing at the sink, washing his hands for much longer than necessary. That shaky breath when Harry touched him.

“Anyway, I’ve got to head back. Study session with Hermione. A little _sexual education_.” Ron wiggles his eyebrows, a move totally usurped by the way his ears redden. Harry has to snort -- some leader he is. The only member of The Weasels who can’t score.

“Who’s paying for all this?” Harry asks instead, his eyes traveling over the table full of dirty dishes.

“Uhh...” Ron turns the pockets of his jeans out, looking sheepish. Harry sighs.

→→→•←←←

 

Afternoon sunlight streams through the castle windows as Draco descends the staircase. Fresh off a round of double Charms, he’s in need of sustenance. Despite timing his trips to the Great Hall _just so_ , by mid-day his stomach applies a Sonorus to itself; a greedy chorus of gurgles that shame him out of the classroom and down towards the kitchen, Zacharias Smith tagging along by his side.

Thanks to a single meal at the _Broomsticks_ , Smith’s adhered himself to Draco with all the subtlety of a permanent sticking charm. Worse, he’s taken to prattling on about everything: the squalid conditions of their dorms, the size of his family’s yacht, the dubious color of Professor Flitwick’s nose hairs-- when Draco sticks a hand in his face, stopping him mid-sentence.

There’s a crowd pushing to get through the front doors. Curious, Draco crosses the foyer. Dozens of students spill out onto the castle’s flagstones, many more milling about in the wild grass outside -- all of them looking up.

“He says he can do it,” hisses a Ravenclaw girl with several long, dark plaits.

“Of course _he’d_ say that,” shoots back a burly Gryffindor with tremendous ears. “He’s a reputation to protect. Can’t have the Death Eaters thinking he’s chicken!”

“Tch. You’re both wrong,” says a Slytherin Draco recognizes vaguely, her nose in the air. “Those _Weasleys_ put him up to it.”

Interest piqued, Draco treads on enough toes to push his way to the front. Looks up. The sun is out today, though the ground is still damp, and there’s barely a cloud in the sky.

A quick flick of Draco’s wand applies a magnifying spell to his eyes. It soon reveals Potter standing at the top of the Astronomy Tower, surrounded by his Weasley cronies. What more, he’s straddling his motorcycle, posed over the edge of the stone as if he intends to--

“Any chance to show off.”

Draco flinches. He’d forgotten Smith was even there. The other boy wrinkles his nose in disgust. “If you ask me, Potter must have had a sad childhood to need _this_ much attention.”

“There’s an original thought.” says Draco, his tone dripping. His eyes remain on the Astronomy Tower. He knows Potter is an idiot, but this is truly beyond reason.

What happens next is almost too fast for Draco to process. One moment Potter’s teetering on the precipice, the next he’s zooming, _falling_ down the side of the castle. Draco feels his stomach clench as the crowd lets out a collective gasp. Potter’s picking up speed, but showing no sign of pulling up from his steep dive as the ground rises to meet him. Someone screams, and Draco’s honestly not sure if it’s him, because the buzzing in his ears is so loud.

Then, at the very last moment before he connects with the ground, Potter revs his engine and the bike arcs upward in a burst of magic. Whoops and hollers fill the air, cheers all around. Until Potter’s motorcycle begins to shudder uncontrollably in mid-air. Several unidentified shiny bits fall off.

Then the bike itself gives out completely.

“Harry?!” Heart in his throat, Draco’s stumbles forward. His body’s moving on automatic, shaky hands pulling his wand out to slow Potter’s descent, moments after he’s already hit the ground.

“Get Pomfrey!” someone shouts. The crowds runs towards Potter, Draco arriving first thanks to long legs and a heady rush of adrenaline.

Dropping to his hands and knees, Draco hovers over him. Potter’s just managed to roll clear of the bike, but lies frightfully still in the grass, his eyes closed.

“Harry?” Draco tries, ignoring the way his voice trembles.

It takes a moment. Potter groans, his eyelids fluttering. He turns to blink stupidly up at Draco, who slumps onto his haunches. “Am I dead?”

“Yes,” Draco breathes. Relief surges through him as he nods with mock reverence. “You survived the crash. But then I pulled out my golden time-turner, reset the clock, and murdered you.” His eyes narrow. “For being a _reckless arsehole_!”

Potter smiles. “So you _do_ care.”

“Wipe that smirk off your face. You’re lucky to be alive.” Draco turns to the crowd, motioning them back. “He’s fine, give him some air.”

“My very own guardian angel.”

Draco glares. “Right. Your guardian angel. Come to tell you you’re pathetic for not finishing your secondary education. You’d rather showboat.” He rises to his feet. “Though you must be fine if you’re able to make jokes.”

“I’m not,” Potter says quickly, eyes wide like he’s surprised himself. “Fine, that is.” He clarifies. His expression softens. “I miss you, Draco.”

Draco clenches his fist, highly aware of the others surrounding them. It pales in comparison to Potter’s use of his first name.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Let me make it up to you. Come to the dance with me.”

“The dance?” There’s chatter now. Draco clenches his jaw, feeling his face grow hot. “We haven’t even been on a date! Besides, Zacharias already asked.”

“That’s right.” Smith materializes at his elbow out of nowhere. He makes a show of fussing over Draco like _he’s_ the one lying injured, sneering down at Potter as he’s rebuffed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, scaring everyone like that.”

“No one asked you,” Potter says nastily, flinching when he tries to sit up.

Behind them, the crowd divides as Madam Pomfrey quickly hurries towards the scene, flanked on all sides by Weasleys. “I don’t know what Draco sees in you, anyway,” continues Harry, rising weakly onto his elbows. “So why don’t you just piss off?”

“Language, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey scolds, a spread hand on his chest as she pushes him back down to scan for breaks. Once done, she nods, and the Weasleys help to lift Potter to his feet.

Smith lets out a derisive snort. “Like I said: sad.” He turns to Draco. “Let’s go.”

Draco’s gaze strays to Potter, who seems more interested in listening to the tailend of their conversation than the twins’ apologies. Off to the side, Ron collects the motorcycle, summoning the stray pieces and shrinking them into his pocket. When he misses one, Draco points his hawthorne towards it, directing it over to Weasley, who nods.

“I can find my own way back, Smith.”

The other boy recoils like he’s been slapped. “You can’t be serious.”

“You heard him, _Smith_.” says Potter, grinning with satisfaction as Smith throws them one last horrible look before flouncing off in storm of robes.

Draco rolls his eyes. Someone really ought to inform Potter that hobbling towards the castle sandwiched between two gingers, makes for an equally pathetic exit.

“I haven’t said yes,” is what he says instead, straightening the shoulders of his own robes. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Merlin Potter, you’ll be lucky if they fit your fat head through the doors at this rate.”

Potter’s smile lights up his whole face, the bottle green of his eyes sparkling. Draco turns on his heels, ignoring the incredulous looks of more than half the Hogwarts student body as he strides back the way he came, his face on fire.

“Me and my fat head are taking you on a date!” Potter shouts at his retreating back.

“I haven’t said _yes_ ,” he insists, still moving.

“And the dance too, if it goes well!”

“Goodbye, Potter!”

“Tomorrow night!”

“Eight.” Draco calls, fighting a grin he’s glad Harry can’t see. “If you’re even one minute later, I’m calling the whole thing off.”

→→→•←←←

 

“This is nice.”

Harry settles back into the plush upholstery of the carriage, content to gaze at the stars before them. On paper, the cliff where the thestral-drawn carriages are kept is off limits. To the Hogwarts student body, it serves as the official hookup area. It’s the Hippogriff with two backs: closed off to the younger students, the privacy charms created by industrious young wizards looking to get off, more than serves the needs of those sixth year and up. Tonight someone’s taken it upon themselves to create noiseless miniature fireworks. Each one bursts into amusing shapes: caricatures of their professors, magical creatures, and even (an embarrassing) one of Harry’s iconic scar.

Draco nods, wearing a secret smile. Another rocket explodes, illuminating his face in a shower of gold. “I’ve never been up here before.”

“Really? That’s--” Harry’s not sure how wise it’d be to tell Draco he’s been up here so many times, he knows which carriages squeak the loudest. “That’s interesting,” he finishes lamely.

Draco’s flat stare tells Harry not only is he transparent, but the view’s not all that impressive. “ _Virgin_ isn’t a dirty word, you know. There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of.”

“Of course not!” Harry says. “Just like I’m _not_ ashamed of being sexually active.”

“That’s brave of you.” Draco snorts.

“Up Gryffindor.” Harry scoots closer. “Besides, I’ve known plenty of virgins.”

“ _Known_ ,” Draco grimaces. “In the biblical sense?”

“We all start out that way,” Harry answers, carefully evasive. Another firework goes off, green and silver. Slytherin colors. Harry leans in to press a warm kiss to Draco’s jaw. “Doesn’t mean we have to _stay_ that way.”

“Some of us… aren’t in as big of a hurry.. as you,” Draco continues, his words breathy. Harry moves down the side of his neck, and when his arms fold around the narrow circle of Draco’s waist, his eyelids flutter.

“Do you always move this fast, Potter?”

“Just with things I really like.” Their lips meet, and it feels like the fireworks aren’t in the sky, but between them, burning hot and bright. It’s nothing like the frantic grappling of his past. It feels deeper. Honest.

It’s the thought of touching Draco, taking his time, that sets Harry ablaze. He can feel his cock stiffen. Draco moans softly against his mouth and when he exhales, Harry steals inside with his tongue.

He feels the exact moment the kiss changes. Draco’s shoulders grow tense, the line of his back rigid. One by one his muscles lock like a procession of ants, traveling down a path one after the other. Harry’s no longer Draco, but a Malfoy-shaped statue.

“Harry, stop.” Draco pushes away with a wet gasp that does nothing to staunch the flow of blood that’s already migrated south. “It’s too much.”

“We even haven’t done anything,” Harry says stupidly. He falls back, winded.

“Says you.” Draco scoots further, panting. Harry’s concerned if he scoots any farther, he’ll end up in the lap of the guy in the next carriage. “Are you related to the Giant Squid? Hands everywhere!” Draco wiggles his fingers like tentacles and the sight makes Harry burst out laughing.

“Shhh!!!” Someone shouts.

“Sorry!” Harry yells back, falling into Draco as they snicker.

Draco’s laughter slows, wiping at his eyes. He turns to Harry. His face is soft. “You know I don’t-- Can we go slow?”

Harry nods. “Whatever you need.”

Draco looks skeptical -- and when his eyes travel pointedly to the bulge in his pants, Harry can’t exactly blame him.

“I’m a teenage boy. I’m full of feelings and hormones.”

“And magic. And spunk.” Draco faces forward.

“I mean it,” Harry insists. “I’ll go at whatever speed you want. I like being with you. You make me feel like--” He cuts himself off.

Draco turns. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Like I don’t have to be _Harry Potter_ all the time.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but you’ll always be Harry Potter. It’s an unfortunate truth we all have to bear.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says, nudging Draco with his elbow. “You know my reputation. Everyone hears my name and immediately remember what happened to my parents. They see the scar and they expects things from me because _I survived_. Here they see the sweater and expects things because I’m _cool_.”

“You can always take the sweater off. It’s not a second skin, you know.”

Harry huffs. “Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, get over yourself. Reputations aren’t everything.” Draco crosses his arms. “My parents aren’t nice people. I’m a snob and prude, and my circle of friends will probably never be as large as yours because of it.” Draco lifts his eyes to the sky. “But you’re allowed to be anything you want to be, Harry. Not just what people decide for you. Make your own rules to live by.”

Harry sits with that for a moment. It sounds simple when Draco says it.

“Even if it means falling off flying motorcycles, and racing Tom Riddle, and being a reckless arsehole?”

Draco smirks. “No one said your decision making skills weren’t questionable.”

Another firework explodes this time, red and gold. The badge on Harry’s jacket gleams, catching his eye. It’s one of his dad’s old ones. There’s more, Sirius has a whole drawer full of them. But it’s Harry’s favorite, a small round pin with nonsense letters and the head of a stag.

“Here.” Harry hurries to remove the pin, turning fully towards Draco to hold it out between them. “I want you to wear my pin.”

“Harry…” Draco breathes. He looks down at the pin then up at Harry, his eyes wide.

“Let’s make a promise,” Harry says. “I won’t be anyone but myself when I’m around you. And you do the same with me. We’ll just be who we are and fuck what everyone else thinks.”

When Harry wordlessly asks permission Draco nods. Harry fumbles, drops the pin twice before Draco snatches it from him and puts it on himself. Once he’s satisfied he touches his want to the badge so that the letters re-arrange themselves to read POTTER SUCKS.

“I’ve been known to enjoy it from time to time,” Harry quips, wiggling his brows.

Draco reddens. Taps the pin again to move the letters back to their original place.“You’re terrible. I don’t know why I like you.” Harry watches Draco’s finger carries the pin like it’s something precious.

“But you do like me?” Harry ask, nuzzle his hair with his nose.

“Merlin help me, I do.”

→→→•←←←

Draco adjusts the shimmering silver fabric of his dress robes. He’s gone all out with an iridescent glamour to his hair, paired with matching gloves and pointed shoes. On the collar of his robes is Potter’s pin, gleaming in the low light.

A few girls do a double take as he walks by, one snapping her gum with an audible pop. The way their eyes lingering helps a little to settle Draco’s nerves. He may not dress as sexy as some of Harry’s past lovers, but he knows he looks handsome.

He’s almost to the doors of the Great Hall when he feels a pair of eyes watching him.

It’s not Harry, or thankfully Smith, but a strange boy in dark robes. He’s tall and would have been handsome in a sort of romantic way, were it not for his nose. It’s so flat and upturnt it’s as if he hasn’t got one at all. His nostrils are two slits in his face, his eyes glassy as he leers.

Draco hurries past, the boy turning to watch him go.

Floating candles overhead, the house tables have vanished, replaced with an enchanted lagoon. There are rocky crags cushioned for seating, tiny waterfalls enchanted to change colors, surrounded by fairies that twinkle as they move from place to place. Real, live swans that swim in the gathered pools surrounding the dance floor, and a cave heaped with every kind of refreshment towards the back.

The cave is where he and Potter have arranged to meet, but Draco stopped by the sight of Lovegood: hair crimped and piled atop her head, adorned with seaweed. A sheer Ravenclaw blue dress that trails the floor in waves. Large seashells dangle from her ears. She looks like a mermaid or a sea nymph.

It’s strange to be sure, but oddly fitting. Draco’s aghast to find he likes it very much.

“Not bad, Lovegood.”

“Thank you. You look very handsome, Draco.”

Her smile is warm, unlike her date’s. It’s one of the twin Weasleys (he’s not sure which) making a face like he’s smelled something rotten.

Draco’s first instinct is to spell Weasley’s face so it sticks that way. He stops himself. _It’s important to Harry_.

“Weasley,” he tries, drawing on eighteen years of Pureblood tradition.

“Malfoy. Come on Luna. Wouldn’t want to offend the classy folk with our presence.” Weasley leads her off without so much as a goodbye.

Draco’s left standing alone. A couple walks by, hands over their mouths as they glance at him, Draco feels his ears burn.

“Where are you, Potter?” he mutters aloud.

“Right behind you.”

Draco spins in place, his mouth falling open at the sight. Harry looks… _mouth-watering_. Windswept and sexy like he’s leapt from the kind of dream that would make Draco’s Pureblood ancestors’ hair curl, and onto his motorcycle. In tight black trousers and an untucked dress shirt open at the collar with tailored robes thrown over, he’s easily the handsomest man in the room.

“You sneak.” Draco looks down at Harry’s shoes. “Silencing charms?”

“I swallowed a Sneakoscope when I was a baby.”

Draco snorts. “Tell me another one. Next you’ll say you have an invisibility cloak.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m pretty resourceful when I need to be.” His eyes travel over Draco, appreciatively. “You look.., Wow.”

Harry’s never been very good with words, but Draco’s stomach squirms pleasantly all the same.

“Let’s dance.” Harry says, taking his arm. “I want you to show me your moves.”

Two songs later, Draco knows why no one’s ever mentioned Harry Potter’s dance moves. He’s a newly birthed unicorn struggling under the weight of its own horn. No one should be subjected to Potter dancing. Ever.

Draco mercifully takes the lead. Harry tells him about getting his bike fixed up good as new. Draco tells him about his plans to return to France the following summer. And they’re having fun, pressing close every time they escape the watchful eye of a Professor who begs them to leave room for Merlin, laughing about nothing, caught up in their easy banter -- until the press arrives.

“Uh oh.” Ron sways his way over to them, Granger in his arms. “You may want to take Prince Charming here,” he eyes Draco, “and lay low until they get their pictures.”

“Good thinking.” Harry frowns. “But why are they here? The game was weeks ago. There’s nothing to report except a bunch of teenagers in formal robes necking and dancing badly.”

“So you _are_ aware of it.”

Harry ignores him. “Where are Fred and George? I haven’t seen them all evening.”

“One was here with Lovegood when I spoke to them earlier,” Draco remarks, and the other three turn in surprise.

“What?” Draco says, offended. “I have eyes. It’s only in my fondest dreams that a spell exists to make your enemies invisible.”

Ron shakes his head, dazed. “It almost sounded like concern.”

Granger smiles. “And you seem to get along with your _enemies_ just fine.”

“Alright, alright, lay off,” Harry chides them. Grabbing Draco’s hand he looks around. “Let’s find an alcove and then we can--”

Several parchments and quills appear in front of their faces, journalists _Leviosa_ ing them towards Harry and Draco as they surround them.

“Harry! Is it true you’re dating Draco Malfoy out of pity?” says a man in a feathered cap.

“Of course not! I--”

A redhead woman. “Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. Draco darling, did you father _really_ threaten to have Potter murdered?”

Harry eyes grow wide. “He what!?”

“That’s not true, Harry, I mean he isn’t _happy,_ but--”

A man dressed in lace robes with an iguana on his shoulder. “Is it true, Harry, that the Death Eaters have recruited you to join their gang?!”

“No!” Harry and Draco both shout at once. Draco’s tries to push through the mass, Harry’s hand clutched tight in his when more reporters turn, their eyes gleaming with the promise of a scoop.

“Are you blackmailing him, Draco? Carrying Potter’s love child?”

“Leave him alone!” Harry snaps. “You’re asking if he’s pregnant and he’s never even had sex!”

Draco abruptly drops Harry’s hand.

“Potter!” He roars, and the journalists press in looking gleeful. Draco’s blinded as several flashbulbs go off at once. He squeezes his eyes shut, raising an arm to shield his face. “I can _not_ believe you! _How DARE you_ \--”

“Look!” someone shouts.

Draco cringes. He assumes whoever shouted is pointing at him. The reporters and journalists are still pressing in from all sides and he can barely push through the them even after forcing his eyes open.

Fred and George Weasley have climbed the conjured waterfall. What more, there a bubbles _everywhere._

Not just the waterfall, but the small pools. The water in the magical lagoon has risen to wash over the dancefloor. Suds are crashing over everyone’s feet, rising to their waist and they grow in size. Students, reporters, even chaperons have been caught in the largest ones, floating up to the enchanted ceiling slapping at the bubble’s shell. There are people running, sliding, shouting in every direction -- all while the twins cackle maniacally.

Draco immediately casts a _Protego_ over himself. The first thing he needs to do is look for an exit. _This,_ he fumes to himself, is _exactly_ the kind of situation he expected from a dance at Hogwarts. Not creepy strangers, and invasive reporters and _certainly_ not Potter’s, big, stupid, fish mouth telling the entire world his private business.

“Draco! Wait!”

Harry’s doing his best to tramp through the suds, a look of panic on his face. A girl slips, bumping into him, and just like that, Potter’s enclosed in a bubble, rising into the air.

“Draco! I’m so sorry!” He shouts, his voice muffled as he rises high and higher. “Come back, I can explain!”

The journalist nearest to Draco snaps a photo, and that’s the last straw. With one last glare at Potter, Draco shoves through the chaos heading straight for the Dungeons.

→→→•←←←

“He wants to race for wands.”

Harry plugs his inkwell, wiping the excess ink on his robes when it smears the back of his hand. His parchment is still wet. Hermione once taught him a nifty charmed that dried the ink fast enough to roll it up without smearing, but Harry doesn’t remember the wand movements. It’s the kind of thing Draco would know.

Rising from the bench, Harry stuffs the unrolled parchment into his bag and tosses the ink on top. He’s pretty sure he hears one of his quills snap. He leaves the classroom, Ron close on his heels as they enter the corridor. Leaning against the opposite wall, Charlie, Fred, and George join them.

Ron picks up where he left off. “Did you hear me, Harry? Riddle wants your _wand._ ”

He shrugs. “I can always get another one.”

“Get another--!” Ron repeats, aghast.

Charlie turns backwards to study Harry’s face. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“A fucking _virgin!_ ” laughs two boys with a _Prophet,_ loafing in the walkway. Harry points his wand and both swear, dropping the burning paper.

He turns back to Charlie, his face stormy. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

It’s George who answers. “You’ve been moping for days. And don’t tell us it doesn’t have to do with you-know-who.”

Harry stuffs his wand back in his robes with more force than strictly necessary. “It doesn’t.”

“Harry!” Charlie and Ron stop walking, blocking his path. Fred and George take the rear.

“You’ve got to get your head in the game!” Charlie exclaims, clearly frustrated. “This isn’t the time to get hung up on some waspish wizard who won’t put out. There’s plenty of other people out there!”

“I don’t want them.”

“Then think about us!” Ron says, his expression pained. “What about the race? We can’t let those Death Eaters have the upper hand!”

“Besides, do you really think someone like Draco Malfoy can hang with us?” Charlie jerks a thumb over his shoulder to his brothers, who nod. “Can stand up to _them_? Your boyfriend is a square.”

Fred laughs. “Malfoy couldn’t break a rule if he dropped it by mistake!”

“He’d be the first to rat us out,” says George. “That’s why it’s called _Draco-_ nian law!”

Harry can’t help but notice he’s playing to an audience yet again. Several students, even a few professors, have taken residence near the alcoves, or lurking in doorways. Most have the tact to make themselves look busy. Others don’t even try to hide the fact that they’re eavesdropping. He spots another Daily Prophet with Draco’s betrayed face and glares until the seventh year holding it slips it behind their back.

“Draco hasn’t done anything to any of you since he’s gotten back,” Harry continues, his voice rising. “He’s different now. Not perfect, but that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s not his parents. He’s not what you want him to be. He’s his own person!” Harry finally gets it. He’s spent so much time thinking Draco’s not under the same social pressures when really it’s hard for all of them, in different ways. At least he hadn’t faced it alone. Who did Draco have? _Zacharias_ _Smith_?

“Look Harry. Mate. We’re only saying this ‘cause you’re our friend. You’re a good guy and we want what’s best for you.”

“What about what I want?” Harry swallows, thick. “I care about him.”

He turns to everyone gathered in the hall, spreading his arms. “Did you hear that, everyone? Draco Malfoy is the one that I want! The one I _need_!”

Harry has nothing to lose at this point. “And he’s a virgin because he _wants_ to be! And I hope he’ll fuck my arse one day!”

Ron groans, “Mate,” at the same time as Charlie says, “Pay up.” Fred and George each slap a galleon into his waiting hand.

It’s wild, but Harry thinks he spots a pale head whipping around the corner, tho it’s too quick to tell. There’s still the race to think about now. As much as he misses Draco, Harry knows he has to face one problem at a time. First he’ll win tomorrow’s race. And once he’s taken care of Tom Riddle, he’ll make things right with Draco.

He just hopes Draco will let him.

 

+++

 

The moon hangs round and full over the Great Lake, reflecting off the water as it bobs gently. Harry grips Hedwig’s handlebars with sweaty palms. It’s after midnight and they’ve all snuck down from the castle: Harry and The Weasels, Ginny, most of their friends from Gryffindor — even a few friends of friends from other houses, including Slytherin. Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott are there, as well as Pansy Parkinson, who’s whispering conspiratorially with Luna Lovegood a little ways down the shore. Further down, The Death Eaters stand amongst themselves, Riddle himself laughing with Bellatrix in the center of the crowd.

He’s nervous. Harry’s a natural on a broom, can fly with the best of them. He’s already beat Riddle once, a long time ago. But they’ve both gained experience since then. Riddle wouldn’t wager his wand unless he thinks he has more than a good chance. When he glances over, Riddle’s girlfriend is throwing her arms around him. He revs his engine with a hiss and his motorcycle, Nagini, seems to hiss right back.

He wishes Draco were here.

Instead, Harry straddles his bike and revs his own engine to amp himself up. Except when he does, the Hedwig’s usual thrum is more of a stuttered hiccup. He blinks rapidly, calling the others over.

“I don’t know, it was fine last night,” Harry insists. He slide back on the seat watching Hermione anxiously as she runs her wand over it. Her brows knit with concentration. “I don’t get it! It chooses _now_ of all times not to work?”

“Sounds like performance anxiety,” Fred quips, good-naturedly.

George motions with his hand. “It needs another a good, hard _crank_.”

“It’s the brakes.” Hermione blows a stray ringlet out of her eyes. “Someone’s tampered with the enchantments. They’re intact, but just barely.” She focuses on Harry’s face. “If you push it too hard, they’ll give way.”

“It’s too late to back out now, ‘Mione. You know I have to do this.”

She nods. “I know. I won’t try to talk you out of it. Just be careful.”

“Of course.” Harry touches his forehead to hers.

“Draco!”

Harry’s head snaps up, following the shout. Luna’s leading Draco over from where he stands in the clearing. Harry’s mouth drops open. He’s never seen Draco like this before. Skin-tight trousers, leather by the looks of it, hug his long legs and the curves of his hips, leaving nothing to the imagination. He’s got on boots, and the buttons of his loose black top are open so far down that Harry can see the slight definition of his abs, the glint of pale hair leading down in the moonlight.

“Draco,” Harry can scarcely breathe, the shot of arousal that goes through him is so powerful. He’s never seen anyone sexier.

Malfoy’s movements are slow and slinky as he releases Luna and walks towards Harry, the grace of a big cat stalking his prey. “Hello, Potter.”

“What—” Harry swallows hard. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think you would come.”

“Believe me,” Draco says lowly, in a purr Harry’s never heard before. “I want to come.” He stops in front of him. “I want you to come too. But that can wait until after the race.”

Someone claps, slow but loud in the expanse of woodland around them.

“How touching. I think I might cry.” Riddle’s propped on his bike, smirking at them. His cronies cackle. “Better kiss your boyfriend goodbye, Potter. I mean, if he’ll let you. You know how frigid Purebloods can be. _Everyone_ knows.”

There’s another round of ugly laughter. Harry glares, but it’s Draco who speaks. “I’d tell you to keep your nose out of my business, but you’ve already managed to lose it.”

Bellatrix steps forward her wand drawn.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that,” Riddle says with a tap to her arm. “We should be grateful to Draco Malfoy. If he hadn’t caused such a big distraction, we wouldn’t have been able to get to Potter’s bike.”

“What are you talking about, Snakeface!?” Ron shouts, his face red. “You had nothing to do with those bubbles! That was them!” He points to his brothers, who nod sharply.

“True. But who do you think called the press? We only needed to keep Potter and Malfoy distracted. And thanks to Potter’s big mouth, it worked out even better than I’d hoped!” Riddle throws his head back, cackling.

Harry can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “I can still fly circles around you, you slit-nosed bastard!” He shouts.

“Well you’re welcome to try.” Riddle slips an arm around his girlfriend’s waist. His dark eyes glitter. “Because nothing short of a good luck charm is going to keep me from taking your wand!”

“Don’t listen to him.” Draco moves in front of Harry, blocking Riddle from his field of vision, while the circle around them tightens. Harry’s eyes move over the faces of his friends who nod, offering their own encouragement. Swiftly, Draco cups his face with both hands, bringing his focus back to his steely gray eyes.

“You don’t need luck, Harry. You have us. You have _me_ ,” he emphasizes.

Draco pulls his hands away to go to the waist of his leather pants, where Harry’s pin shines. “And I still have this.” He taps the pin and the letters change again to say POTTER SUCKS. When his eyes meet Harry’s, they’re full of heat.

“Go win that race, and I’ll let you show me just how much you _suck_ , Potter.”

Charlie’s the one who gives the final rundown: it’s a race along the perimeter of the castle, through the Forbidden Forest, and back over the lake, with the first back declared the winner. Harry’s biggest concern is the Forest -- He’s been inside before, but this time it’ll just be Riddle and himself. Alone. Harry glances at Draco, standing with Ron and Hermione, who nod.

“Alright, gentlemen. If you’re ready.” Charlie raises his muscular arms, Gryffindor scarf in his fist. “On your marks… get set…”

There’s a gasp as Charlie collapses, clutching his side. Bellatrix lowers her wand, rushing forward, bending nearly double in a primal scream of “GO!”

Harry and Riddle are off like a shot, tearing through the sky in a shower of sparks and magical exhaust that brings tears to Harry’s eyes. They clear the Astronomy Tower, round the Quidditch pitch, the wind whipping his cheeks, as sharp as a cold slap. They’re neck and neck, neither he nor Riddle willing to give an inch.

Hedwig roars when Harry hits the throttle, thrumming powerfully between his thighs. They’re entering the forest now, zipping through the trees. The bike maneuvers beautifully thanks to the enchantments Hermione’s helped him research. Harry flicks the high beams, dipping low, then high above lunging branches, darting right to avoid a swaying tree trunk.

He’s feeling confident, can see the opening in the trees that lead back towards the lake coming into sight, when the scent of sulfur alerts him to the flash of green light that barely misses his temple.

Another bolt of dark magic shoots towards him, whistling through the trees. Harry bears down on the gas, fumbling with one hand for his wand.

“Look alive, Potter! You don’t think I’d make it easy on you!?” Riddle shouts, and his voice echoes all around Harry though he can’t see him.

Aiming where the shots are coming from, Harry fires off one disarming spell after another. The bike jerks, then dips alarming. Harry swears. “Come on, Hedwig!” He pleads, pressing himself to her frame as flicks his wand. “Stay with me!”

Dark, billowing smoke rises from the exhaust as Harry breaks from the trees, bursting from the forest in a mess of leaves and broken branches. He can see Riddle just up ahead, flying low as he starts back over the water. Harry narrows his eyes.

Below, the Death Eaters are already celebrating their victory, cheering and casting glowing neon skulls into the air. Harry’s over the water now, the final stretch. Gripping Hedwig’s handlebars so tightly his fingers turn white, Harry slowly rises onto his feet, bearing down on the gas pedal. He needs more speed.

Skyrocketing forward, he draws up along Riddle, smoke almost obscuring his look of shock. “I thought I told you, Potter!” He screams. “You can’t win!” Riddle takes his hands off Nagini to aim one last spell. “AVADA KE--”

_Make your own rules to live by._

Harry hits his brakes, swerving hard to left with such force that it sends water spraying up in all directions as he and Hedwig skid along the surface of the lake. The movement cuts Riddle off, and with both hands off his motorcycle, he goes flying through the air.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouts, flinging a drench arm wildly. Riddle’s wand goes flying out of his land. Harry feels something hot and victorious rush down his spine as he watches Riddle, Nagini and his wand hit the water with a tremendous splash.

Hedwig comes down hard with a thud, front wheel first, throwing Harry once again clear of his bike. He shoulder connects with a frightening crunch, pain flaring down his arm and through his body with enough force to make him wretch. He can hear shouting. The pounding of feet running towards him, the splashing of water.

But the last thing he says before everything goes black, is Draco’s rueful smile.

→→→•←←←

 

“It won’t fit,” Harry says, shaking his head. His eyes are wide, panicked. “It’s too big. Shrink it down or something.”

“Oh, stop your whinging,” Draco grunts. He pushes down, putting his weight behind it. Sweat beads on his temple. “It’ll fit, I just have to move some things around.”

“Shrink. It. Down.” Harry grits. He grabs the bag full of presents, Draco still fisting a handful of fabric. “Or put an extension charm on it. We’re going to be flying and I don’t want to have to make two trips.”

“Neither do I, with the way you fly,” Draco grumbles, swishing his wand. Once he slips the bag into the breast pocket of Harry’s dragonhide jacket, he climbs up behind Harry and slips his arms around his waist.

Draco turns to Ron, speaking over Hedwig’s engine as Harry spells her on. “Are you _sure_ your family won’t mind my coming?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking that?” Harry snorts. “You’ve become the bad influence on me now that you’ve lost your--” He cringes when Draco pinches his stomach. “--sense of humor.”

“You two should get going or you’ll be late,” Hermione says, snuggling into Ron’s side. “We’ll meet you later at the Burrow.”

“And I’m not saying they’ll be a sweater shaped package waiting for you,” adds Ron, his nose red from the cold, “But mum asked me what color brings out your eyes.”

Draco lifts a brow. “That _will_ be a surprise.”

“I don’t think anything will surprise me now,” Harry releases the kickstand, hooking his boots onto footrest. He can feel Draco all along his back, his soft lips brushing Harry’s skin as he presses a kiss to Harry’s neck. “We’re proof of that.”

“Us? It was always going to happen, Harry. We go together like--”

“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” Harry sings.

Draco frowns. “What?”

“What?” Harry repeats. “I heard somebody say it once.”

And with a burst of speed, Harry steers Hedwig into the sky, he and Draco disappearing into the clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  Creations are posted anonymously during the posting period. The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2019/works) on 15 June.


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